One Hot Daddy: A Single Dad Next Door Romance Page 7

  “Bye, Char,” Randy said as she packed up, rising from his chair as well. “And, kiddo…”

  Charlotte spun around, her eyes holding light tears. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry if I irritated you with what I said. I really do think you’re a great writer. And I know you wouldn’t do anything like sleep with the boss, or whatever.” He turned and glared at Pamela, who scurried away, like a rat.

  “Thanks, Randy,” Charlotte murmured, her heart falling into the acid of her stomach. “That means a lot.”

  She sped into the sunshine of mid-September, a sunshine that spoke of lost summers and of the approaching coziness of winter. She couldn’t shake the scent of Quentin, nor the thought that some of the interns were “catching on” to their affair. She’d known Quentin just one day of her life and already it seemed he’d tipped it upside down. Nothing she’d assumed about herself the previous day—regarding her approach to her career, to professionalism—was correct any longer.

  Charlotte took the long route home, gliding through the park, taking in as much of the sun as she could before it nestled beneath the trees. The tug of her apartment, waiting for her to unpack her clothes and other things she’d lugged from Ohio, was palpable. But she ignored it, knowing that if she waited alone in her apartment, she’d yearn for Quentin even more.

  He was just down the hall. And he was all but irresistible. Even though she knew that every time she slept with him, she was literally detracting from her professional development.

  She was whoring herself out.

  Her phone began to buzz. She lifted it, discovering it was her aunt, down in Florida.

  After three rings, Charlotte answered brightly, trying to sweep away her sense of melancholy.

  “Hey, there, Auntie.”

  “Darling Charlotte, it’s so good to hear your voice. How is the apartment holding up for you? Your mother said you got the keys all right from my lawyer.”

  “I did, yes. And the apartment, well, it’s too good to be true,” Charlotte said. She stared at a child on a swing set, swooping in a wild arc through the air, his legs flailing. “How’s Florida?”

  “Florida is quite swell,” her aunt answered, speaking the language of a woman over seventy years of age. “I’m getting quite a bit of writing done, and I’ve been flirting with the pool boy almost constantly. Such a hunk, Charlotte. That’s what you call them? Hunks?”

  “Ha. I’m not sure, Auntie,” Charlotte said, grinning. “Hey, Auntie, do you happen to know many of your neighbors on the ninth floor?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. I’ve lived there over twenty years, now. Have you met any of them?”

  “Just a few. One man and a daughter. Morgan.”

  “Morgan. That little thing. She used to come water my plants in the wintertime. Once, she broke a vase, and her father—a hunk of a man, to say the least—bought me a delightful new one in its place. It was made in Paris, of all places. He really knew how to charm this old lady’s heart.”

  Charlotte felt her heart erupt with warmth. Jesus. This man wasn’t just a sexual icon. He was probably a good person. What was this emotion, this spinning in her head?

  Was she falling for him?

  No, no. It was too early.

  “Well, great. I’ll know to go to his apartment if I ever need anything,” Charlotte answered softly. “It’s good to have kind neighbors. Especially in a new city, alone.”

  “Darling, you were never meant for Ohio. I could see it bleeding you dry, every year when I came to visit. You have something more in you. I can smell it.”

  Charlotte thanked her aunt for the apartment once more and then said her goodbyes, with her aunt telling her that she’d spend the rest of the evening drinking mimosas near the poolside. Brimming with daydreams and impossibilities regarding her boss, Charlotte walked back home, hopeful that she’d somehow run into Quentin in the elevator once more.

  But the elevator doors opened, revealing an empty, silver interior. Her neck bent like a sad giraffe, she stabbed the ninth-floor button and felt the pressure of gravity as it launched into the sky.

  Her apartment was just as lonely, just as somber as she’d imagined it to be. She unpacked slowly, methodically, stabbing hangers into her dresses and stuffing tights and shoes into the closet. She played music that made her anxious, and then stabbed the “Next” button countless times, trying to hone in on her mood.

  Nothing fit. Nothing fit except Quentin, beside her. Speaking with her. Teasing her.

  Frustrated, she lifted her phone and texted Rachel, ready to confess.

  CHARLOTTE: I did it. I slept with him.

  Charlotte dropped the phone on the bedspread, immediately panicked. Writing it out meant it was real; writing it out meant that she was allowing this to happen. Writing it out meant she wanted it to happen again.

  After a small, panicked eternity, Rachel began to message her back, in a flurry.

  RACHEL: OMG. You slut.

  RACHEL: Just kidding.

  RACHEL: I mean, how did this happen?

  RACHEL: Please, tell me everything.

  CHARLOTTE: He just came over last night.

  RACHEL: Very cool. Very hot. He’s used to getting what he wants, I guess.

  CHARLOTTE: I just don’t want to be his collateral damage. I told you. I want a career. I want to be a music writer.

  RACHEL: But you also want that sweet dick.

  CHARLOTTE: Sad, tragic, but true.

  RACHEL: HAHA.

  RACHEL: Let me know if you want me to come over. It must feel crazy, just being down the hallway from him.

  CHARLOTTE: It does. But I’ll be all right. I’m going to have to get used to this eventually.

  Charlotte undressed, donning a pair of leggings and a black V-neck shirt. After she realized she hadn’t yet gone grocery shopping, her stomach did a brief flip of hunger, crackling within her. “Shit,” she murmured, surfing through the Internet, on the hunt for cheap Chinese. She felt concave, like she was folding in on herself. “I can’t survive like this.”

  Would she grow accustomed to talking to herself, now that she lived alone? Now that she was growing more and more mentally unstable, due to lusting after her boss?

  “Yes, hi,” she said, speaking now to the Chinese restaurant down the road. “I’d like to order some food for delivery. Orange chicken, with a few of those spring rolls. Yes. That’s all.”

  The Chinese woman on the other end spoke to her tartly, telling her it would be about twenty-five minutes till she’d receive it. The order amount was almost nothing—less than eight dollars, shockingly, and without a designated amount required for delivery. Charlotte imagined that if she passed the Chinese place on the sidewalk, her stomach would curdle at how disgusting the interior was. What she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.

  Poised on the couch, she waited for her Chinese, sensing the nighttime come rushing in. Unfortunately, her mind turned to thoughts of Quentin almost immediately, imagining him with his daughter. She imagined him stirring dinner, his business sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tattoos. He’d instruct Morgan on her piano technique, using his many years of musicianship to guide her hands. Just because he’d been a raucous rock star didn’t mean he didn’t have the skills to back it up.

  And, Jesus, those hands hand been pressed against her clit earlier that afternoon as he’d bent her over his desk.

  No. She had to stop thinking about it. She had to draw the line and tell him, almost immediately, that she couldn’t be alone with him again. Resisting his prowess was almost impossible. His scent drove her wild, made her frenzied. Even just thinking about it, her legs began to part; her pink pussy lips bounced softly apart, yearning for him.

  The doorbell rang, then. Charlotte ripped up from the couch and rushed the door, feeling out of her mind. She grabbed her wallet and opened the door to reveal a Chinese delivery driver on the other side. He passed her a massive dripping bag, and she handed him ten dollars, including the tip.
He nodded primly and then turned away, without speaking. He darted toward the elevator before Charlotte even had the chance to say goodbye.

  She brought the bulky bag of Chinese into the kitchen, having to carry it with two outstretched arms. She began to leaf through it, sensing immediately that they’d gotten the order wrong. There was enough food in it for at least three people, for one. And also, her orange chicken was missing, replaced with some strange, sloppy-looking beef and vegetable dish.

  “Fuck,” she murmured, rushing to her phone. She’d given up eating red meat the previous year and didn’t want it to turn her stomach. She dialed the Chinese restaurant, getting the same lady on the phone. “Hello,” she said, her voice still bright, if manic. “I ordered food about twenty-five minutes ago, and it’s the wrong order.”

  “Okay. What is your address?” the woman asked sternly, as if she didn’t believe her.

  “I’m at Wabash and 181st. On the ninth floor.”

  “Ohhh,” the woman cooed into the phone. “Let me see.”

  She paused for a long time, leaving Charlotte to bob her weight uneasily, anxious. All she wanted, now, was to munch on orange chicken and dive between the sheets. Perhaps all thoughts of Quentin would flurry away when she woke in the morning.

  “There were two deliveries to the ninth floor,” the woman finally announced primly. “One just down the hall. McDonnell. You know?”

  Charlotte’s heart began to hammer in her chest. How could this happen? How could they possibly order from the same Chinese restaurant, at the same time? Why was the universe racing her so swiftly into Quentin’s arms?

  “Fuck,” she sighed into the phone, an accident.

  “It just down the hall,” the woman stammered, clearly agitated. “If you’re so lazy that you can’t walk down the hall—“

  “No, no,” Charlotte whispered hesitantly. “It’s not that. Thank you. Thanks.”

  She hung up the phone and pressed it tightly against her chest. The Chinese food stunk from the countertop, emanating MSG and salt. Her nostrils flared, and her pussy seemed to find its own heartbeat, hammering its desire into her panties.

  If she went, she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

  If she went, she’d fall further from her professional track.

  If she went, she’d dissolve into the greatest pleasure of her life. She couldn’t get enough of it.

  Fuck. What was she going to do?

  12

  “Orange chicken?” Quentin said, sighing. Morgan blinked up at him, expectant, her fingers still scribbling their scales across the countertop.

  “You didn’t order that, Daddy,” Morgan said, her voice bobbing up and down. “Is my rice pudding in there?”

  “No. Not here, either,” Quentin sighed, frustrated. He dumped the bag on the far side of the counter, unsure of what to do. There wasn’t enough food for both of them, and Morgan had been quite picky lately, eating only vegetables and avoiding meat at all costs. She was a seven-year-old activist and an annoyance at the dinner table. Phase after phase after phase: that was childhood. Maybe it was adulthood, as well.

  “Well, what am I going to eat, Daddy?” she asked playfully, spinning on a single toe.

  “Why don’t you go practice the last page of that new one you brought home and leave me to the dinner making, huh?” Quentin said, snapping his hands to his knees and leaning down to her height, looking her in the eyes. “We all have responsibilities in this house. And yours is to ENTERTAIN ME!” He wrapped his arms around her, suddenly, and spun her in a mad circle, causing her to giggle maniacally.

  Finally, he let her loose, watching as she scrambled back toward the piano. She gave him a final, half-evil look, and then curved her fingers over the keys. For a moment, Quentin felt his heart pulse with happiness, and with pure love.

  Filling a large pot of water, he salted it and waited for the bubbles to come to the surface. Spaghetti, again. For an outright millionaire, it seemed strange that he fed his kid spaghetti. But she loved it, swirling her fork as many as twenty times in the gooey strands before lifting it to her gaping mouth.

  Sometimes, everything about their life seemed too good to be true.

  As he poured the spaghetti into the water, however, he couldn’t shoot the thought of Charlotte from his mind. He’d spent the majority of the afternoon with the memory of her kiss on his lips, talking in low tones with The Morning Stars and holding himself back from bragging about her.

  He couldn’t. Somehow, he felt she meant more than just a few brief lays.

  But no. Jesus, no. He shook his head wildly, watching as the spaghetti broke down, became wavy. The no-fraternization policy had to be upheld, at all costs. Feelings were out of the question, as well. Morgan didn’t need him to have a relationship, slicing through the perfect structure of their four-day-week lives.

  Besides. He’d never had to explain a girlfriend to Kate; hadn’t had to voice the words that he’d “moved on” completely from their marriage. He knew she didn’t love him any longer. Perhaps she never had. But just watching the realization that she’d “lost” fold over her face would destroy him. He also didn’t know if she would work to turn Morgan against him in the aftermath. And if the relationship didn’t work out, he didn’t want to face that, either.

  It was better this way.

  “It was a little fling,” he whispered to himself, practicing. “It was nothing at all. We fed our curiosities, and now we’re both over it. Completely.”

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. Quentin’s stomach clenched. He wiped his hands on the blue-striped kitchen towel. With each movement, his tattoos flashed from beneath his rolled-up shirt.

  “Dad? Are you going to get that?” Morgan called from the piano room, halting her playing.

  “Got it, sweetheart. Keep going!”

  Quentin began his stern march toward the door, pressing his lips together firmly. If it was Charlotte, he’d have to send her back down the hallway. What was she thinking, anyway? He had a child. It was still relatively early, which meant she wasn’t in bed yet.

  This felt invasive. This felt wrong. This was everything he was trying to avoid.

  Through the crack in the door, he revealed that it was indeed Charlotte. Immediately, her beauty caused his throat to catch. She wore a deep, V-neck T-shirt, black leggings, and a pair of off-kilter, red socks—a bit of personality, maybe. Her figure was an absolute dream, with those large, soft breasts, that cinched waist, and those doe eyes.

  In her hand, she held a greasy, white bag. A Chinese food bag.

  “Hey,” she stammered, clearly feeling awkward.

  The tension was nearly impossible to slice through. Quentin peered at the greasy bag, questioning.

  “They gave me your order,” Charlotte murmured. “The Chinese place. And I’m guessing—“

  “You have orange chicken,” Quentin said then, understanding. After a pause, he whispered, “Fuck. They really screwed us over, didn’t they?”

  Charlotte pressed her lips into a smile. “It’s almost stupid, really.”

  “DAD? WHO’S AT THE DOOR?”

  “I see you’re not alone,” Charlotte said, drawing strength into her voice.

  “Not often, no,” Quentin said, accepting the bag of Chinese from her outstretched arms. “And we’re both starving.” He paused again, searching her eyes. She seemed sad, demure. Almost expectant that they shouldn’t be together, right now. Almost as if she understood precisely what was on his mind.

  “I’ll grab yours,” he said, tossing the bag onto the counter and trading them off.

  “Thanks. How was your meeting? With the Morning Stars this afternoon?” Charlotte asked, her voice lilting. She was making slight small talk, trying to bridge the friendship.

  “Ah, maybe we should talk about this at work tomorrow instead,” Quentin said, passing her the food.

  The line was drawn. It was over. It had to be. His heart ached with the truth of it.

  “Makes sen
se,” Charlotte whispered, her eyes glimmering.

  Morgan hopped from the piano room, then, and spotted her. Her wide grin forced a larger smile onto Charlotte’s face. Quentin watched as Charlotte gave the girl a slight wave, her slim fingers pointed skyward.

  “Hey, kiddo. Sounds good in there.”

  “You haven’t even heard the best part!” Morgan cried, tumbling closer. “What did you bring?”

  Charlotte searched Quentin’s face. Quentin bowed it, giving her the okay. She could handle this on her own.

  “Just your Chinese,” Charlotte said, speaking in light tones. “The Chinese restaurant mixed up our orders. How silly, no?”

  “That’s hilarious,” Morgan said, smacking her palms onto her jeaned knees. “They are always mixing up our orders. But Dad says they’re the best in the city, so.” She shrugged, sounding blasé, like a much older woman.

  “She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,” Charlotte said warmly, eyeing Quentin once more.

  What did she see when she looked at him? Her boss? A rock star? A father to the little girl between them?

  “Well, then, you have to eat with us,” Morgan said, her voice insistent.

  Charlotte hesitated. She bit her lip in that sensual way she always did. Quentin could almost literally see the wheels cranking in her head.

  “Come on, Charlotte,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “You can’t just hang out in the hallway all day. The food’s getting cold.”

  “I don’t mind eating alone,” Charlotte said hesitantly, glancing up at Quentin once more. Something within his gut clenched with interest, with yearning.

  “Dad says it’s unhealthy to eat alone,” Morgan said primly. “He says that’s why I can’t eat in front of the television by myself. Dinner is for communion.”

  “Does he say that?” Charlotte murmured.

  Quentin shrugged evenly, not even hating that his daughter was giving him away. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gorgeous girl. He opened the door a bit wider, gently tossing his head toward the dining room table. “Come on, Charlotte. Like the girl says, it’s completely irresponsible to eat alone. You’d be doing your body a disservice.”